Work Text:
Martin’s head is full of fog.
It is not as dense as before, but the progress is slow and exhausting. Martin is unreasonably tired considering all he has really done today was eat the breakfast Jon prepared for him. Jon is not much of a cook, the eggs had been charred from the edges, but Martin ate it without complaint. Jon just watched him with weary eyes, since he did not eat real food much anymore, primarily surviving on water and second-hand trauma. Through his clouded state, Martin had managed to feel something almost like gratitude that Jon cooked for him anyway.
Now, Martin sits on the ratty sofa and tries to think. It was quite a useless endeavour, as he could not think of anything but his inability to properly think.
Behind him, Jon moves about the room, trying to keep himself busy. There is not actually anything to do in Daisy’s tiny cottage, so he pretends to clean the kitchenette. All the dishes are already washed and the counter Jon is wiping is spotless. He rubs the old rag on the counter in mechanical circles.
Martin knows it is his fault.
If he was able to be just a smidge more sociable than your average piece of furniture, Jon wouldn't have to pantomime normality. Unfortunately for both of them, the best Martin can manage is to sit here in silence. It took all his willpower not to get up after breakfast and hide away. To not lock himself up in their shared bedroom and stay there alone until he’d fade away for good.
He shifts in his seat and tries to focus on something real. His fingers dig into the threadbare cushions next to him, but the scratchy material provides no comfort. Martin looks around, but the room is quite empty with nothing for him to focus on, when he tries, the sparse decor mocks his attempts to stay in the present. Physical reality does not ground him, it only serves to remind him how nice it was to be devoid of proper physical form.
Martin knows he has to fight that feeling, and he knows the solution to his problem. It is the same as it always had been: Jon.
He moves his head, just a bit, to watch Jon. As difficult as it is, the more he allows himself to reconnect with Jon, the less hold the Lonely has on him. Jon fills the electric kettle with water and clicks it on, while Martin has to consciously remind himself that he loves Jon. Martin doesn't have any negative feelings towards the man, in fact, he is struggling to feel anything at all these days. He tries to remember how he felt, because his feelings for Jon had been important to Martin even when he had been so sure they’d stay one-sided, and he’d like to have them back.
He has some success in conjuring up some feelings that were not just a memory, watching as Jon spills water on the counter next to his mug, and curses softly. Martin finds himself smiling. Not much, but still.
Focusing on the full picture proves difficult, like he fails to see the forest from the trees. Or from the fog. To tether himself, Martin watches Jon's hands. The elegant, long fingers opened up a box of tea and unceremoniously dropped a bag into a dull gray mug. Martin can’t help but wonder how much sensation remains in Jon's severely burned palm. Jon comes closer, and Martin can see that his fingernails are jagged. He had never thought of Jon as a nail-biter, but to be fair the events have been nerve-racking.
Despite watching every action that led to making a cup of tea, somehow Martin is surprised when those hands present the cup to him, expecting Martin to take it.
All he can manage is to look at Jon dully. Jon’s face is gaunt, his hair is grayer than ever, and the bags under his eyes are deep, but he looks calmer than Martin remembered him being ever since the Prentis’ attack way back when.
Martin is slow and confused, like he has been ever since Jon rescued him. To get from London to Scotland, Jon had to literally lead him by the arm. He was gentle about it, holding Martin's hand the whole train ride while whispering soft reassurances, despite the dirty glances a few other passengers had thrown their way. Martin had noticed, yet been numb enough not to care.
Jon is not fazed by Martin’s lack of reaction. Instead, he is artfully casual about it, reaching for Martin’s hand to manually guide it to the mug. Martin lets him. He finds the physical touch nice, but Jon’s eyes widen in surprise. He lets go of Martin’s hand for an unpleasantly long second to set the mug on the squeaky little sofa table and then takes both of Martin’s hands into his own.
“You are freezing,” Jon comments.
“Am I?” Martin asks and then thinks about it for a moment. “Yes, I suppose I am.”
Martin is not sure he will ever be warm again. He always had poor circulation, but now his skin is abnormally cold and clammy, like something that has been left alone in the rain for too long. Has it been so the whole time? For warmth, Jon rubs Martin’s hands, and Martin watches this peculiar intimacy. The burned skin provides an interesting texture against Martin’s hands.
Too soon, Jon lets go of Martin’s hands.
“Thank you,” Martin manages to say, and Jon smiles at him, though it is a tentative, tight-lipped smile.
Jon takes the teacup from the table and gently wraps Martin's fingers around the warmth of the mug. He holds the mug with Martin for a second to ensure he doesn't drop it. Martin recognises the gesture from when he had tried to help his mum to eat. He winces at the unpleasant memory.
When Jon’s hands leave his, Martin barely registers how warm the cup is. Still, he holds on, because Jon wanted him to. Martin takes a tentative sip but can't taste much of anything.
Jon evidently can’t decide whether to sit next to Martin or return to the kitchenette. He hovers there in front of Martin, awkward and unsure. The hesitation does not suit him. The insecure display reminds Martin of something and it takes him an embarrassing minute to realise that that something was himself.
He is acting much like Martin once had, standing near Jon’s desk, desperate to be useful. He had never been much use, not like Tim and Sasha had been. All Martin had ever managed to be, was to be blandly likable, someone people made small talk with and asked small favours but were never genuinely interested in. And that had never worked on Jon.
The feeling of old shame manages to pierce Martin’s foggy shield, and he has to hang his head to avoid looking at Jon.
While he is not looking, Jon walks away, and Martin is hit with an acute pang of loss. He can feel his heartbeat quicken. It is a silly feeling, Jon is still near. He is in the bathroom now, making a bath, by the sound of it. Martin supposes feeling bad is fine, a proof that his feelings are returning but he yearns to feel something other than unease and fear.
After just a few minutes, Jon comes back. He is still fully clothed, his hair is dry, and Martin doesn't understand what Jon was doing in the bathroom.
“Bath is ready,” Jon says softly, and it takes an embarrassing second for Martin to understand the bath is for him.
Martin rakes his hand through his hair and realises how greasy it is. When has he last shovered? Sometime before getting thrown into the Lonely. Martin had never liked his body much, and after Elias’ little trick, he avoided looking into mirrors altogether. Falling in with the Lonely made it easier not to think about his physical existence at all, but now he was forced to remember he not only had a body, but how he was not taking care of it. He feels filthy in the way he hasn't felt since spending two weeks under a worm siege.
“About the time, yeah?” Martin asks with the same awkward chuckle he always used to when he wanted people to feel bad for him, “It must be terrible for you to have to share a bed with someone who stinks.”
Jon's response was a gentle shake of his head, a silent dismissal of Martin's attempt to deflect with sad humour. He stands in front of seated Martin. It was strange to look up to him.
“That's not it. I just want to help,” Jon says.
His voice, like his expression, is painfully gentle. Like Martin is something delicate and breakable. Martin does not know how to deal with attention like that, it has never happened to him before, so he continues with something familiar and deflects.
“You don't have to do that,” he says.
“I want to,” Jon replies immediately.
The dull look Martin gives him was not the reaction Jon apparently was after. He kneels on the floor in front of Martin to look him better in the eyes. Jon’s eyes used to be so dark brown that they seemed almost black, but now there is an odd glow to them. Still, they are gentle and not hungry as he reaches to touch Martin. Martin still holds on to the empty cup, so Jon awkwardly puts his hand on Martin’s knee instead.
“I want to take care of you, Martin. Is that so hard to believe?” Jon asks
“Yes,” Martin says, and means it.
People don't take care of Martin, Martin takes care of people. That is how it always has been.
“You don't owe me anything,” Martin insists, his gaze drifting from Jon’s painfully honest eyes to the threadbare carpet under him.
Jon brings his hand, the unburned one, to Martin’s face and gently lifts his head till their eyes meet again. The raised worm scars on Jon’s palm are tangible against Martin’s cheek.
“I don't think that is exactly true,” Jon says in a tone so heartbreakingly sincere that it left little room for argument, “though this isn’t about that. I just want to take care of you.”
Martin wants to believe it. He really does. He wants to believe he is not being a nuisance or a burden to Jon, that he is worth something even when he is no use to anyone.
He does not quite manage to feel that, but he does not argue. Jon takes this as a victory and gets back on his feet. He has to hold on to Martin to do so, as his worm-eaten leg is not meant for kneeling.
Martin allows Jon to lead him to the bathroom by hand. Undressing in front of Jon is something Martin assumed he’d feel self conscious about, but that feeling never arrives. Instead he notices with something like satisfaction how Jon looks at him. There is a shy smile on Jon’s lips as he does not subtly take in the sight of Martin’s body. Being looked at with love was a foreign feeling for Martin, but he decides he likes it.
Martin gets in the clawfoot tub. He can't tell if the water is still too hot, or if he himself is just too cold. It is not painful, however, so he just settles in.
“Can I?” Jon asks, standing behind the tub.
“Yes,” Martin answers. He doesn't know what Jon is offering, but he knows he wants it.
With careful hands and honey-scented shampoo, Jon begins to wash Martin’s hair. Martin keeps his eyes closed to avoid any shampoo from getting into his eyes.
He lets the warmth seep into his bones, and tries to let himself enjoy this. He’s feeling peaceful, but it is warm and comfortable peace, not just the cold lack of pain that the Lonely had promised him. The shampoo’s fragrance contrasts nicely with the damp air of the safe house. It has been a while since Martin last had any opinion on something as trivial as smells. Jon is thorough and painfully gentle as he massages Martin’s scalp softly long after his hair is clean.
Martin opens his eyes and tilts his head back to find a smiling Jon. His shirt is wet from the splashed soap water.
“Hm?” he asks.
"I could get used to this," Martin admits.
"That's the idea," Jon replies.